ON'T TRY THIS with false teeth!
Rudolf and Gerda Pedrola's
jaw-wrenching act (left) depends
for success on the muscular aerialists'
bulldog bite. Rudolf twirls his wife from
a device that both clench only with
their teeth. As she hangs, she begins
spinning in ever-accelerating revolutions
that blur her features, transforming
her into a sequined whirlwind.
After more than 25 years as an
aerial team, the German-born couple
talk increasingly of retiring to their
Florida ranch. But they will leave
behind the time-honored legacy of
circus folk-their offspring. Reared in
the world of tinsel and tights, Dagmar
Pedrola (right), 23, chose a trouper's
career "because I just couldn't imagine
waking up each day in the same town."
Here, at the outskirts of West Jefferson,
North Carolina, she sharpens her
wire-walking talent on a cable fence.
When she came down, she tapped her shoulder
and said in her rich German accent, "It hurts
so much-and what I just did was not even a
trick." I asked her whether she would per
form that night.
"Oh, of course," she said
quickly. "When the crowd applauds, all your
troubles go away."
There was a blast from the ringmaster's
whistle, and his voice filled the tent:
". . . And now in the center ring, the sen
sational Pedrolas!"
The pair climbed swiftly up the high rig
ging, and for a few minutes, as they spun
and flipped and twirled while hanging by
their teeth, Gerda's troubles did go away. So
did the troubles of a tent full of circus fans.
And that, I discovered, is a part of the daily
magic of the traditional American tent circus.
We-my wife, my 15-year-old daughter,
and I-joined that circus in late March in
414
Orlando, Florida. For weeks we hopped
across the Southeast, each day hurrying past
fields and pine-clad countryside shrouded
with early-morning mists. We lived in a large
motor home in the "backyard," where the
performers park their trailers beside the big
top, and watched and participated in the part
of the circus few fans ever see.
A tent circus, we found, is a heady mixture
of hokum, noise, salesmanship, dedication,
and talent. It is a fragile thing, at the mercy
of weather, mechanical failures, human ex
haustion, and the whims of a public oriented
to television and the movies. It is a world of
tent workers who drift from circus to circus,
known only by nicknames: "Whitey," "The
Fox," "Bird Liver," "Gypsy Red," "Super
Chicken." And it is a life of lost sleep, meals
grabbed on the run, and almost daily moves
from town to town.